Taxicab Confessional
by Caness
Summary: Mohinder picks up people in his taxi... Stuff happens... but he never gets paid. MohinderZane and eventual MohinderSylar.
1. Day One: Zane

He saw a bit of spiky blonde hair, easy smiles passing through mirrors as the door slammed. Mohinder spun to lean on his seat, meeting lightly dancing eyes with his own.

"Where would you like to go?" he asked cheerfully, taking in the proudly-displayed Ramones insignia on the man's t-shirt.

"CBGB's, man!" the youth exclaimed, practically _bouncing_. He looked younger than Mohinder had remembered anyone looking in a long time. "The Ramones are playing a reunion show—it's gonna be _awesome._"

"Is it?" Mohinder asked conversationally, chuckling as he started his engine.

The man, he looked to be about twenty-two perhaps, nodded vigorously, the epitome of puppies and Christmas. Mohinder couldn't help but grin.

"So, Mohinder, huh?" his passenger said, virtually _slaughtering _his name. "What part of India you from?" _That _surprised Mohinder, but not by much—there were a lot of Indian cab drivers in this town.

"Madras," he murmured, _blood _and _father _splattered over his eyelids. He bit his lip and attempted to steel himself, just a block more…

"That's cool…" the man said absently, tugging on his shirt sleeve and fiddling with the hem. His eyes wandered to the window before snapping back to Mohinder's rearview mirror without warning. The taxi driver had to quash the urge to twitch. "I know this is, like, awkward or something, but… Would you maybe want to meet me for coffee sometime? I mean…" He moved his arm to the door handle, shifting his weight; looking discomfited.

This man was asking him on a date, he realized with the slight widening of his eyes. Mohinder had the presence of mind to look startled, honestly having no idea how to respond.

"Right," the 'punk' in the backseat whispered, red tingeing his cheeks. "Well." The man seemed to draw himself up as Mohinder came to a halt in front of the rock club. "Think about it?" His voice took on a husky edge, in contrast to his jittery statement from earlier. He leant forward, planting the tiniest kiss on the very edge of Mohinder's mouth, crumpling paper into the Indian's outstretched palm.

With that he vanished, and Mohinder sighed _heavily. _Unfurling his fist, he found a small, mangled post-it note there with a haphazardly jotted phone number instead of payment. He couldn't stop the second sigh from coming. This was going to be _Hell Week. _He turned to glance out his back window, shifting into reverse; he caught a glimmer of something sparkly where the young man had been sitting.

His door-handle was, quite literally, _melted _all over the seat.


	2. Day Two: Niki

A compact yet vivacious blonde with lips that pouted and hips that cocked slid herself into the seat behind Mohinder. He couldn't help but crank up the charm, just a _little._ He turned around to take her in completely, smiling blindingly.

For all her confident looks, when her voice came it was teasingly soft, almost timid. Mohinder turned the wheel and shifted before turning around completely. A girl that pretty just didn't come from New York, but he didn't know how to ask without it sounding like a cheap pick-up line. And hell, maybe it was.

They drove mostly in silence, which Mohinder thought was sad indeed. He did love to strike hear himself speak /strike hold a conversation, especially with beautiful strangers.

Suddenly, the woman in the backseat drew herself up and seemed, for all the world, like a new person. Mohinder blinked, trying to keep his eyes on the road. A cold smirk played at the edge of those plump lips, and Mohinder was reminded of the man he had recently met.

Zane Taylor. He was an odd fellow. One moment he would be timid, even _twitchy _as this woman had begun, but oftentimes, when the other man didn't think Mohinder could see… well, he looked downright mischievous. The Indian idly wondered what this could mean.

"Turn around," the woman said, voice completely distorted. It held no nuance of hesitation or softness—it was dark and demanding and held an air of the utmost confidence, as did her upturned chin.

Mohinder started. "Excuse me?" he asked, voice quivering just the slightest bit.

"I said," she barked. "_Turn around_."

Mohinder gulped, hoping the woman wasn't some sort of schizophrenic, and complied. _Schizophrenic?_ Maybe that was why… He shouldn't think such things about his new friend, but the thoughts came unbidden despite this, flooding his mind's eye with every action Zane had ever taken to contradict himself—the list was too long to tabulate.

"No," the voice behind him whimpered. It was a barely audible sound, one he wasn't sure he had truly heard. "Shut up, Niki," said the confident voice, much louder than the first. Mohinder was starting to get nervous, beads of sweat gathering at his hairline.

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked as pleasantly as he could manage, avoiding even indirect eye-contact through the mirror. _The mirror… _Mohinder realized quite suddenly that every time this exotic woman saw her own reflection she would change, appearing meek one moment, strong and unwieldy the next.

"Pull over," the quieter voice cried suddenly, note of panic coloring her tone. Mohinder did so, quickly, as they edged around the park.

The clacking of heels on pavement could be heard, followed by a soft coughing sound.

Mohinder sighed heavily, moving to get out and shut the backdoor when he realized the woman was not going to return. Were there any paying customers in the whole city?


	3. Day Three: Zach

"Hullo," a mild, yet vaguely accented voice called as a young man entered the vehicle, hands shaking; eyes wide with trepidation.

"Where are you headed?" Mohinder asked gently, eying the youth as if he might disappear at any moment.

"_Find Claire_," he mumbled, wringing his hands and fiddling with the seatbelt buckle.

"What was that?" The geneticist asked carefully, wondering idly (and completely without logic) if he should even start the car.

"Uh," the boy started, groping for something _anything _to tell the driver. "Well, I'm not… exactly sure where sh—it is. I, uh—could you just drive that way?" He gestured vaguely, and not in any particular direction.

Mohinder sighed, feeling put-upon; deciding to just _drive._

"Hey, Mr Suresh," the kid asked suddenly, glancing at his nametag dancing fiercely as the Indian drove with abandon.

"Hm?" Mohinder asked, quashing the irritation in his chest that demanded he correct the boy with his proper title.

"Uh…" An imperceptible emotion flickered across his face as he wrung his hands a bit more urgently. "Have you ever felt like you were… _meant _to do something—like it was fate?"

He looked so sincere that Mohinder held back the 'Are you just asking that because I'm Indian?' that sprang to his tongue.

"_And I'm not just saying that because you're Indian." A friendly brush of fingers against an arm, an easily exchanged smile. _

This wasn't Zane Taylor, Mohinder realized suddenly, pulling the car over mechanically.

"Something wrong, Mr—"

"_Dr_ Suresh, actually," Mohinder clipped, feeling miserable. "And yes, I do understand. Some things are fate." It was cryptic, and yet rang true, making his throat go dry.

_A bloodied iPod, a shell of a woman once brimming with life… _

"I met this man…"

_**Sylar**_

"I didn't believe in fate before today," he said cheerfully, running nervous fingers through course hair. "Uh, I think I know where I need to be now."

Mohinder tried to regain his bearings, though he felt the bile rising in his throat. He had met the real Zane Taylor, in his taxi… such a short time ago, and yet… It seemed an eternity ago that the man had been able to bounce and hit on him and see his favorite band be tributed. Mohinder wished _he _knew where _he _needed to be.

The boy's demeanor had shifted completely, instead of jittering and fidgeting he was now as still as death, directing Mohinder flawlessly. His lilting Southern twang was gone from his speech, his voice lowering and flattening out the more he spoke. And his eyes were unseeing; void. Mohinder recalled Zane's _Sylar's _blank look when Dale had died, the suggestion of calling 911 from the road.

As the young man clambered out of the taxi, his clumsily anxious nature returned and he hit his head on the way out. He began to walk away, and then ran back, paying Mohinder through the window. He was so startled that someone had actually paid him he didn't even care that the kid was short.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Dr Suresh!" he called cheerfully over his shoulder, eyes twinkling.

Oh, he would find his revenge, so help him Kali.


	4. Day Four: Ted

Mohinder applied his breaks, distractedly pulling up to the curb. An awkwardly lean figure slid into the back seat and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, 'just get me out of here.' Mohinder glanced in his rearview mirror, taking in a taut, thin face and scruffy, longish hair obscuring somewhat angular features.

"Where to?" he asked absentmindedly, decidedly _not _thinking about what _Sylar _Zane had said to him that morning.

The man shook his head and frowned, crossing his hands across his chest and hunkering into his seat. "Main… Street?" he finally spoke, wholeheartedly uncertain. Mohinder chuckled.

"Which one?" he prodded gently, taking his cue and starting the car. It was apparent this man just wanted to "get the hell out of dodge." He couldn't help smiling at the Americanism as he stepped on the gas.

"Just drive me to the other side of town," the man sighed, defeated. Mohinder nodded, brow creasing as a bit of that irrational concern for strangers crept into his expression.

_Where did that 'concern' get you last time? _A sardonic voice sing-songed, causing Mohinder to cringe. That one thought was enough to throw him back into a reverie. It seemed as though he was in a constant dream-state these post-Zane days.

"_Zane" pushed him back onto the bed, all trust-me smiles and gentle movements. Mohinder was hyper-sensitive to his touch, every casual brush amplified until he was whimpering, begging at the ministrations of his father's killer._

He had known it was wrong. Even if he hadn't known what Zane _Sylar _was, he had known he wasn't Zane; that should have been enough.

Mohinder risked a glance to the backseat, frowning when he realized his passenger had fallen asleep. He decided to keep driving, too scared to entertain the prospect of waking the man up—he looked like he could use it anyhow.

"_Zane" rocked against him, the epitome of inexperience, but Mohinder wanted to let him find himself… didn't want to interfere with his mission. Sylar's face was set in a determined line, and at the time… Mohinder had found it endearing._

Now he knew it for what it truly was: Gabriel Gray trying to "figure him out." He felt his stomach sink.

He heard the man stir behind him and he turned to glance at him warily.

"Have a nice nap?" he asked, carefully keeping the cynicism at bay.

The man laughed darkly, studying his shoes. "Yeah, sure," he said, brushing his unruly hair away from his face. "You can just drop me off here."

Mohinder nodded curtly, letting the disoriented man out.

He leant forward, and gave him a really nice tip. It was almost too good to be true.

He felt a slight heat on his palm, and the man was gone as quickly as he had come. Mohinder looked down at his hand—the paper currency had turned to dust.


	5. Day Five: Claire

Title: Taxicab Confessional  
Rating: PG-13  
Pairing/Characters: Paire, backwards hints of Mylar (could be construed as Mohinder/anyone though)/ Claire, Peter, Mohinder, mentions of others  
Word Count: 1,210  
Warnings: AU, cestyness  
Note: My wonderful friend ohmygodmuffin gave me the idea for this fic. It was written for your prompts of Mohinder and Claire and Peter/Claire. I so want to write more fic with this theme now… I hope you like this girly as it is my first real dive into incest, het, and Paire. It's been fun writing for you—I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.

Mohinder glanced over his shoulder at the blonde creature that entered his cab, eying her warily.

"Where are you headed, miss?" he asked in that British lilt, flashing her a smile that was all plastic professionalism.

The girl read him the address, muttering into her shoes in a manner that he could tell was uncharacteristic, even for just having met her.

She was pretty, Mohinder had mused, but in a classic-and-clean, all-American way. She carried herself with the confidence of a woman but bore the face of a much younger individual. Grown-up children always had the same saddening effect on the geneticist.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he prodded gently, catching her eyes in that all-too-stereotypical mirror-stare.

The teen seemed to curl in on herself, quaking hands dragging through her long curls as she visibly fought not to look away.

"Not worth a penny," and Mohinder thought he had imagined the words as they drifted to his ears, barely above a whisper. The man frowned, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road as he was hit by a crippling wave of empathy. The adolescent seemed to catch his expression as her clear eyes darkened in conflict.

Something struck Mohinder suddenly. "You're not from New York, are you?" He could hear a faint accent in her trembling soprano.

She flashed an easy smile, lips finding a throw-away phrase: "Texas, born'n'bred." Her voice's tremulous quality waned, revealing its natural strength.

"What brings you so far from home?" He tried to keep his tone light, but he was the innately curious sort, and the girl intrigued him.

"I'm having some family… issues back in Odessa," she confessed, a slight flush warming her cheeks.

Mohinder could tell she didn't have anyone to talk to from the relief that sloughed off of her in sheets. He made a face; he knew _all _about family "issues" and all that they implied. "How unfortunate," he said, brow crinkling in distaste.

"Yeah," the blonde girl agreed, eyes drawn to the grey sky slung over the grey street against grey buildings as Mohinder turned a corner sharply. He wanted to inquire further, but he knew that he was already being invasive. He sighed and refocused on their route. But then his passenger surprised him by saying, "I am visiting my uncle Peter—he's the only person I have left." And didn't that just make him _ache. _

Just then a pedestrian stepped out in front of his taxi, catching him unawares. He jerked the steering wheel, colliding with the curb but managing to avoid collision. Mohinder heard a rather violent _thump _as the child in his backseat was thrown forcefully into the door. He screeched to a halt, no doubt jostling her tiny frame even further.

Mohinder whipped around in his seat to see how badly the young woman had been injured. Before he could undo his seatbelt however, he saw a large gash across the girl's face. It wasn't bleeding. Mohinder's breath caught as her skin knit itself back together; mending before his eyes.

"You have the genetic marker," Mohinder announced once he had found the oxygen. A sickening realization nestled its way into the pit of his stomach, sprawling out there: the _uncle _that this girl spoke of was none other than Peter Petrelli, the man who had claimed he could fly. He had blown Peter off, but here was his niece, healing herself.

The girl's eyes narrowed as they met Mohinder's in a steady gaze. "Claire Bennet," spilt reluctantly from her plump lips and Mohinder found himself imagining those lips on Peter's. He shuddered as the Peter in his head tangled a delicate hand in Claire's silken, wheat-colored hair, making a hesitantly pleased noise as she opened her mouth to him, to her uncle; tilted her face up for better access.

_BadBadSickWrong, _resonated insistently within his skull; he was recalling the taste of his own blood sliding down the back of his throat. Mohinder crooked a hand out outwardly for Claire to shake. "It is nice to meet you, Miss Bennet," he assured, quirking his mouth into a lopsided grin. The goofy gesture reminded him of the young man who said he could fly, but only around his brother and the memory flung him back into that place in his mind where Peter clutched Claire's waist and drew her close. "I am Dr Mohinder Suresh." His voice pushed just a fraction of an octave too high as Claire took his hand, shaking it lightly.

There was not one indication that her flesh had been broken, and the doctor was in awe as its smoothness stared him down; mocked his inability to recognize _potential. _His father hadn't recognized Gabriel Gray's talents, and now he was killing everyone else on the list. His shudder renewed itself, beginning at the base of his spine and crawling its way up to his neck. His mental Claire drew her petite, manicured hands down Peter's chest, clutching at his jacket and bringing them imperceptibly close. Mohinder's body quaked in a much more subtle fashion this time, and it had nothing to do with being disturbed.

"Dr Suresh?" Claire's face creased in concern, small hand dropping out of Mohinder's. He nodded, turning right-ways in his seat, aiming for a much calmer expression than he bore. "Can we move?" Cars sounding their horns finally filtered into the forefront of Mohinder's conscious mind, disrupting his reverie.

"Oh, right," he said, more than a little mortified as he applied the gas and sped down an alleyway toward Peter's apartment. "Sorry about that." Mohinder winced apologetically.

When his mental Claire and Peter fizzled back to life he tried to tune them out, but soon their intensity grew as they clung hopelessly to one another, losing clothing; generating friction. The sounds of their coupling drowned real Claire out as Mohinder lost himself completely in his dream.

She didn't seem to notice his disregard for her words as she carried on, completely undaunted as she chatted away animatedly. Her plush, rose lips stretched across her teeth, adding _vivid _detail to the Indian's sordid hallucination.

Somehow they had reached her destination without further damage coming to neither themselves nor the taxicab. He reciprocated her warm smile, watching Peter carefully through the window of his home. In a matter of moments, Claire was in the room, diving to land in his arms.

Mohinder thought of the arms wrapped around _him _nights, and sighed as Claire gave her _uncle _a peck on the cheek, running her hand up his side in cruel mockery of his vision. The gesture spoke volumes sans speech, hundreds of thousands of words left unspoken among the Petrellis; perhaps they didn't want to say the wrong thing.

Mohinder Suresh was certain of one thing: he didn't believe there was such a thing as the _right _thing anymore. He drove away, schooling his features to stay serene; his eyes to be alert and ready to drive. When he looked back at the dreary, grey apartment building over his shoulder, he convinced himself it was because it disgusted him, even as he felt that ever-familiar envy snake settling in; consuming his bile.

He wished to _belong_ somewhere, anywhere, but there was nowhere for Mohinder but his compact yellow confession box.


	6. Day Six: Ando

Mohinder heard a rattle, turning back to glance at the slim Asian man who was levering the car door open with shaking hands. His eyes pierced Mohinder, sizing him up cautiously—he couldn't hold the other man's gaze for long.

"Where would you like to go, sir?" Mohinder asked in a barely audible tone.

His passenger let out a dejected exhalation, balancing his head on his hands as he was pitched forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his thighs.

"Sir?"

The man started, lifting his head.

"Sorry," he mumbled, word near-muffled by a sudden crack of thunder. "Take me to the Deveaux building."

Mohinder nodded tightly, holding his tongue. Driving taxis meant keeping his thoughts to himself, but he was, by nature and by practice, a scientist, and he found himself quashing his innate curiosity far too often for comfort. Mohinder blinked, keeping his eyes on the road instead of his dangerous thoughts.

"Have you ever lost someone very close?" the man inquired somberly.

Mohinder noted with some annoyance that it had begun to rain—torrentially. He sighed, hopelessly lost in memory.

"_Mohinder?" Zane had asked, eyes alight with mischief. The Indian rolled over to face the punk, brown skin taking on the hue of honey as tendrils of light caught it through a small gap in the curtains. "Do you ever think about what will happen when we die?"_

_Mohinder blinked away sleep-dust, moving into the warm spot at Zane's hip as morning chill swept through him, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The larger man's hands slipped around him without prompting, rubbing his arms to fight the cold and pulling him into his chest to keep it at bay. Mohinder could feel a creeping blush making its way across his flesh as he choked out a response._

"_I-I suppose." Zane rested his forehead on Mohinder's shoulder, smiling broadly. "What do you mean?" he breathed, burrowing into the taller man's chest._

"_I mean," he said thoughtfully, speaking directly into Mohinder's ear. "Do you believe in life after this?"_

_Mohinder shuddered, and pulled away to look into Zane's eyes. This was all much too surreal. And then his shaky voice came, foreign to his ears, "No."_

_When had he lost all religion?_

"Yes," Mohinder bit out, and he was _not _battling tears.

Lightning struck as he pulled up to the decaying structure. He couldn't help the small jump, but he chalked it up to shaky nerves and New England weather.

"Don't loose hope."

Mohinder almost thought it was the rustling wind, having forgotten his client. The door was shaking, hanging wide open; allowing rain to collect on the cab floor.

He rushed out into the storm to dart back and collect the crumpled bills that the man had carelessly left on the seat—

_Yen._


	7. Day Seven: The Haitian

A sleek black man entered his cab—that was all he really could be called as he near-glided into his seat. He nodded to Mohinder, who returned the gesture amicably, putting the vehicle in gear.

"Where t—" His head became flooded with foreign images, memories surging violently to the fore. His body was already plotting a course before he could catch up.

He threw an alarmed glance to his backseat, speech temporarily eluding him. The man tossed back his own, dark eyes unblinking as sunlight bounced off of his shaved head, giving it a slight sheen. His hands twitched, that alone sending Mohinder into a panicked frenzy. The man drew his lips back over his teeth in a cold mockery of a smile, bringing a finger to his lips.

_Zane had always liked to play games, and Mohinder, so help him, loved to oblige him._

"_Don't touch," he said gently, pushing Mohinder's arms behind his back and climbing to straddle him, trapping the slighter man against the couch. Mohinder took a breath, trying to calm himself as their erections slid together through denim. _

_Zane _Sylar _was grinning lightly, but there was a darkness in his eyes—something that should have told Mohinder __**something**__. It was always about control, and even Mohinder could admit that as large hands wound themselves in wiry curls, tugging at the base of his skull. He winced even as cold lips descended upon his, tongue prodding the confines gently. _

_His fingers itched to trace the man's ribs, run over his nipples; cup his face—Mohinder was too tactile a person, and for him this was too much. He let out a groan, hips bucking under Zane's as he tried desperately to gain mobility of his hands. They seemed pinned by some otherworldly force, but Mohinder knew they were simply crushed between his back and the sofa. _

_Zane smiled devilishly, pulling at the hem of Mohinder's shirt. He attempted to move his arms again, but this once again proved futile as Zane moved his appendages for him to remove the article of clothing, as if he were a small child. _

_He brought Mohinder's hand to his lips, dragging his teeth across the wrist, tongue darting out to taste the thready pulse. Mohinder fought for control of his lungs as his heartbeat picked up and his breathing became erratic, his face thoroughly flushed._

_Sylar took a long digit into his mouth, encasing the finger in radiant heat; sucking it languidly. Mohinder let out a soft cry, his body seeking friction it could not obtain. _

_He felt that same force, that had pinned him down, animating him, and his breath caught as his hand withdrew from Zane's mouth with a quiet pop. Both hands found their way down the larger man's torso, eliciting small noises Mohinder couldn't help but revel in. Reaching the clasp on Zane's pants he paused, searching the other man's eyes._

_They danced with a wild fire he had never seen, and the sight enticed him, drawing him further in as he replaced his lips on Zane's. They kissed noisily, enjoying each other while the world raged outside._

Snapping out of his reverie, he noted that the car was in park. He clutched at his chest, trying to dial down the speed at which his heart was racing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, detecting movement from the seat behind him.

The dark man looked as impassive as ever, and tilted his head innocently to the side. He shifted into drive—his body seemed to know where he was going.

_Mohinder's lips gained purchase on the shaft, tongue lapping at the head hesitantly. Zane whimpered, fingers flexing in the Indian's hair, causing him to hiss. He pitched forward, overwhelming Mohinder—who, by some small miracle, managed not to cough._

_He gripped the pale erection at the base, drawing it away from the back of his throat before pushing his mouth as far as it would stretch, using what small amount of control he could muster to take away from the overzealous man above him. _

_His efforts proved futile as Sylar continued to buck into the wetness, never enough to draw blood but certainly enough to cause discomfort._

_Mohinder had always liked to be used, and Sylar was more than happy to oblige him._

He found himself at the base of a bridge where he could hear running water, parked in his taxi. He took in a deep shuddering breath and closed his eyes against the migraine that threatened.

Mohinder had that eerie feeling that he had forgotten something, but hadn't a clue what it was. On a whim, he flicked his eyes behind him, and saw something shiny catch the light through a window. A windchime and a short, scripted note stared up at him nondescriptly.

He reached back and grabbed the note, reading it curiously—frowning when it was in a different language (and one that was neither Tamil nor English).

_Oublier est être sauvés._


End file.
